A place for things

Last year, when I had my psychotic episode and ended up in Tasmania, I was in the process of moving out of a one bedroom apartment in Footscray.

There were many good reasons for me to move out of that apartment. Items of washing of mine would go missing off the communal washing line. To begin with I suspected the wind was blowing them off, but even on still days I'd still find a pair of underwear gone or sometimes a t-shirt. I began to suspect the man who lived downstairs who had a habit of coming upstairs and knocking on my door when he was drunk. He seemed harmless enough but the frequent 11pm visits to offer me a biscuit or ask if I'd lost some pegs were a factor in my decision to move.

I woke up one morning and went downstairs to ride my bike only to find it had been dismantled. I also thought initially that the bike seat had been stolen until I found it discarded down the street. One of the most infuriating things was that my bike was locked up and there was another bike less than a metre away just leaning against the wall. Not that I would wish anybody's bike to be stolen or dismantled of course.

There was also the evening that my sister was driving me home and when she went to pull into the driveway, it was on fire. Somebody had poured something flammable down the driveway drain and then it had either intentionally or not been ignited. The firefighters seemed unsurprised by the event and in fact mentioned they'd put out another drain fire around the corner not long ago.

The final thing that made me realise I had to get out of that apartment was the night that someone came to my door and smashed all my potplants and then cracked eggs on my door. I was in the lounge room on the other side of a very flimsy window listening as the whole thing happened. I was terrified. I think this attack was definitely a factor in my later delusion that I was in danger and being persecuted, particularly as that reached fever point in that same lounge room only weeks later.

So I knew I had to move but it was a bad time for me to be looking for somewhere to live as everything in my life; work, relationships, health, was in flux. My aunt and uncle very kindly offered that I could stay with them temporarily and put my things in to storage. That was the beginning of November. I'm still at my aunt and uncle's and my things are still in storage.

This weekend I just retrieved the last few things that got scattered to various people's houses during and after my psychotic episode and I've put them in to storage too. I've brought my broken bike back to my aunt and uncle's and I'm planning on finally getting it fixed this week. It has made me really happy to have it back, even in the condition it's in, and I think part of that is purely because it's mine and I think my things belong with me.

It's hard going to my storage facility and seeing my furniture upended and stacked or boxes with 'books' or 'yellow kitchenware' written on the side in thick marker. I miss my things. I want to be amongst them. This longing, this homesickness of sorts has me scouring domain.com for apartments where I could house my things and myself, round the clock.

I know that I'm probably not quite ready emotionally or financially to be moving out but I'm hoping the day I will be ready is quite soon. Deciding on the circumstances of where my future home might be and what it might look like has been challenging.

I've been told repeatedly and unnecessarily that Footscray is out of the question. I know my family would love me to stay close to the south in the St Kilda/Elwood area but it's inconvenient for all my doctors appointments and for seeing all of my friends. My doctors practice in Clifton Hill and all of my friends live in the north so it would make sense to live over that way but nice one bedroom apartments are rare and the costs are prohibitive. I have toyed with the idea of not living alone but I would need to live with the right person and when I think of them existing, I can't imagine them wanting to live with someone like me with all my baggage.

This quandary is causing significant anxiety in my life right now. If I could somehow skip this bit and get to the bit where I'm living somewhere furnished with my things all around me I would be the happiest girl alive. It's funny, writing that, I just realised that I really will be so much happier once I am in that situation. No wonder I'm so anxious to get there.

In the meantime, I have a bike to reassemble and I'll enjoy riding it around the flat streets of Elwood. After all, I probably (hopefully) won't be here for much longer.

Mired in the mush

I should firstly apologise to my readers for the varying writing quality on this blog. Sometimes I spend days deliberating over what to write and how to write it and other times I get all Virginia Woolf and just tap out stream of conciousness, usually one-handed into the Safari browser on my iPhone and very often from a reclined position in my bed. So hopefully even when this is a garbled mess you still enjoy or learn something, and if nothing else you should learn about the benefits of revision and editing.

So now that's done, how am I feeling today? Well, to be honest, I'm feeling mildly crap. Nothing big or bad is happening but work is just a bit underwhelming and I'm having drawn-out dealings with Centrelink and I'm getting anxious about finding somewhere to live and my appointment with my psychologist left me feeling overwrought and I saw a really bad play and just in general there are enough things going on for me to feel a bit 'meh' towards life.

It's actually a wonderful thing to feel mildly crap. When I'm depressed there is no such things as feeling mildly crap. There's just an amalgamated mush of major negativity that continually feeds itself on what would otherwise be mildly crap feelings. And I get mired in that mush and can't separate out the bits to see that anything is circumstantial.

I will be keeping an eye on my mood to see that it doesn't dip any further or without explanation but overall I think I need to just wait for some of my issues to resolve and in the meantime be good to myself. Perhaps take myself to a movie tomorrow on my day off.

It's definitely helping my mood overall that I'm returning, be it ever so slowly, to being sociable. I almost feel like I need some sort of debutante ball to reintroduce myself to society, after having become such a hermit. I'd like to particularly thank those friends who I've had coffee catch-ups, brunches or play-dates with of late for not blinking when my memory packs it in and I'm suddenly left without words. Perhaps you genuinely didn't notice, but either way it has helped my confidence immeasurably to see that my ludicrous memory isn't standing as a barrier between myself and other people.

Ups and Downs Katie Goes To A Party

I left behind Doctor Who and my pyjamas. I left behind Eurovision and the comfortable armchair. I left behind the safe familiarity of home and I ventured out into the night.

I had received the invitation to my friend's 30th birthday party on one of my last days in hospital. At that time I had imagined that by the time the party rolled around I would have transformed into some effortlessly cool social butterfly, flitting around the party with ease and grace. As it was, I was more of a half squashed moth, limping around the party, trying not to brush up against anyone lest I leave my stain on them.

It was awkward not drinking. I almost accepted the offer of a glass of champagne. I didn't want the people I was talking to to know I was sober as I hoped they'd assume I was slightly drunk and this was why I was failing so dismally at the art of conversation. Conversations were hard. I was so anxious about being at the party that I couldn't fully follow everything other people were saying to me. And I would get distracted midway through my talking part of conversations by helpful thoughts like, 'you've just used the word 'good' seven times in this last sentence' or 'these people probably remember you as the girl who flipped out and went missing'.

If I was my usual self then I would have gotten drunk and drunkenly engaged in conversations with the confidence drunkenness bestows and I would have found the whole evening to be an absolute corker. As it was, I did meet some really lovely people, I divulged all my secrets to one particularly nice girl who then told me all of hers and I made it through the night without fainting or vomiting, two things I was scared there was a very real possibility I was going to do. So I'm calling it a good night.

Returning to work

I feel guilty calling in to say I won't be at work. Even though I ended up in the Emergency Department this week, I feel like because this illness has happened on the tail end of my sick leave for bipolar disorder, somehow it's illegitimate.

Something makes me feel like there is a decision that I make to take time off work when I'm sick with bipolar disorder, which is simply not the case. When i get sick, everything falls out of my hands. I guess because my illness is so caught up in my own psyche and thought processes, it feels like I should have more control than I actually do and I perceive that others must believe this.

I know it must be hard to understand the pain, the exhaustion and the danger of mental illness if you have never experienced it firsthand. This also makes it difficult to explain to someone why I needed to so urgently take time off and for such an extended period of time. If you were to perceive mental illness as merely mood swings, this would seem unnecessary and indulgent. I can assure you though, there was nothing indulgent about my stay in hospital.

I don't think any of my uneasy feelings are being aided by the fact that there is one distinct aspect of returning to work that I'm really not looking forward to; answering the question of where I've been. I'm hoping it won't come up. We're a pretty transient workforce so people do come and go a bit. But if anyone does ask, I'm then stuck with the dilemma of either lying or telling a half-truth or telling the whole truth and dealing with the reaction to that. Most people are inoffensive in their responses but almost everyone seems really uncomfortable when I tell them, and this doesn't wear off immediately. I wonder if people who reveal they have diabetes are given wide berths and sympathetic looks like I've received.

Anyway, back at work tomorrow. One positive note I can concentrate on is that working = getting paid, something much needed after my long, finance-depleting period of illness. Returning to work also marks a return to some sort of normality; I'll no longer feel like I'm wasting water when I shower in the morning, I do in fact need to shower before going to work as opposed to other recent days of being housebound.

So, concentrating on those positives I will boldly make my way to work tomorrow and face whatever challenges lie ahead. Wish me luck.

Sick on sick on sick

An outside observer may be forgiven for thinking that I love spending time in hospital based on how often I do it.

You see, yesterday morning, after taking my bipolar medication and some Codral and Bisolvin for my killer cold I was suddenly doubled over with stomach pain. Soon after I started vomiting and couldn't stop. As I was lying on the bathroom floor feeling like I was going to die, it occurred to me that perhaps I was having a drug interaction so I called Nurse-on-Call. My nurse suggested I to straight to a GP. I went to a local clinic and saw a GP and she suggested I go straight to the Emergency Department at The Alfred Hospital as she wasn't sure what was wrong with me but couldn't rule out appendicitis. So, on to the ED at The Alfred where I was subjected to lots of prodding and poking and I answered lots of questions and was taken off for ultrasounds and as the day wore on I started to feel better but I was hooked up to an IV so I couldn't just leave and besides, I was hoping that somebody could tell me conclusively what had happened to me. Alas, 'twas not to be. I was discharged nearly 12 hours after arriving with a big, fat question mark over my diagnosis.

Somebody suggested that the reflux I get from taking lithium, combined with the amount of mucous I was swallowing and the codeine in the Codral had just created a bad reaction in my stomach and made me very sick. In case this is the case I'm steering clear of codeine, so if anyone wants some Codral, there's some going free at my house.

So, that's it, that's the mystery vomiting ailment that eclipsed my killer cold that eclipsed my bipolar disorder.

I'm really praying (to whom? Not sure) for a sickness free stretch of time now. I'll see out the end of this cold, but that's it, then I want no more. If the universe could be so good as to comply I would be greatly appreciative.

Sick on sick

This post should have been about how excited I am to return to work next week and how fortunate I am to really like my job. Or perhaps about how my psychiatrist and I are both optimistic, and can't see any reason not to be, that the ECT has really worked and I'll be well for a sustained period of time. Or even about how I bought new mascara and new underwear from Target then took myself to a movie the other day, and how it takes precious little for me to feel like I'm really treating myself. Or even Mother's Day, I'd post about Mother's Day.
But this post will not be about any of those things.
Because I have a cold.

These are the rules (well, my rules) when I have a cold; nothing else matters or exists except for the cold and all the shitty symptoms that come from it. So right now I really don't care about all the mothers who had breakfast in bed - I'm drowning in my own mucous. I cannot spare a thought for what going back to work will be like - my sinuses have expanded into my eye sockets. I'm not even really aware that I'm bipolar anymore - I just coughed up something that looks a lot like a pancreas.

Today I shouldn't have even bothered blogging, I should have used my computer for the sole useful purpose it has today; allowing me to watch Doctor Who in bed. Yep. That's what I'm going to be doing until further notice. I'll see you on the other side of this cold. (If I make it.)

Peering through the mist of my memories

This is just a quick post, just a check in, to say that things are ok.

I don't feel much like writing at the moment, all I really feel like doing is being quiet and remembering things. It's both sad and wonderful that all of the memories I have now seem brand new.

I found photos today from my US trip. I was able to remember details relating to most of them but I still don't remember where I stayed in New York City. Each day little flakes of memory come drifting back to me so perhaps that too will come. I am also trying to accept that some things will be lost forever and finding a way to be ok with that.

My mood is stable at a fairly positive place, although I am prone to start crying at the slightest provocation. I watched an episode of The Voice the other night and was choked up from pretty much start to finish. Still, it's good to have my full emotional range back. Hopefully I'll begin to harness it better in the days to come.

Like I said, I don't feel much like writing so apologies for the dull post. Hopefully I'll have more vigour and my logolepsy will have returned by next post.

West Taghkanic, New York

The Mechanism of the Action Remains Elusive

I have finished up after 6 sessions of bilateral electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) and undoubtedly the desired effect of a dramatic improvement in my mood has been achieved.

Despite still grappling with a definite sense that I'm stupider than I was a month ago, a shonky memory and an unusual amount of apathy, I feel a little bit like a bucket of sunshine! Skeptics of this treatment would attribute this to the brain damage caused by the induced tonic-clonic seizures. Skeptics are well within their rights to be skeptical (besides the causal link between skepticism that leads them to being named skeptics) as while there seems to be evidence that the desired outcome of mood improvement can be achieved through ECT, it's not exactly known how this is achieved, so yes, it could be achieved through causing brain damage.

The most interesting phrase I stumbled across when researching ECT is 'the mechanism of the action remains elusive'. The writer in me adores this phrase and is inclined to attribute an almost mystic quality to ECT by virtue of the amount of inherent faith that goes into this line of treatment. The patient in me screams "seriously WTF! You're putting me under general anesthetic and sticking electrodes in my head because it seems to kinda work for some reason you're not quite sure of!?"

If I told you I was going to indulge in some faith based healing as the first line of treatment for another life threatening illness, you would undoubtedly be relieved that I'm locked up in a psychiatric hospital. And yet this is seen as a most legitimate form of treatment. Oh well, it seems to have worked (see, there's that apathy!)

I guess though there's no real way of knowing what has changed my mood. It could have been the elusive mechanism of the action or it could have been taking me off the seven mind altering medications I was on or it could have just been that the time for that mood was up and it was moving on anyway and I'd be a little bucket of sunshine right now, fried brain or not.

Oh yeah, I should have mentioned that they took me off all my medication. I had one of the worst days of my life withdrawing from the Cymbalta. Luckily my shonky memory has blocked out most of it, but what I do remember is crouching in the smoking courtyard, howling in physical and psychic pain. But Miss Bucket O'Sunshine doesn't want to talk about that! Instead I'll tell you how lovely it is to not wobble and shake like I did for all those months I was dosed up to the eyeballs. I've been started on one new medication, Abilify (isn't that the sexiest name for an antipsychotic???) and I'm back on the Lithium slow release to try to keep my mood stable.

I'm being let out on Saturday and while part of me is ecstatic (little bucket of sunshine) there is a part of me that is scared that I'm somehow going to fuck things up and wind up back in hospital again within the next few months (little half-empty bucket of sunshine). Sometimes the apathy chases the fear away and I'm glad, but sometimes I wish it wouldn't. I know I'm only dreaming when I pretend I have much control over my illness and that holding on to that fear could influence anything, but when I'm feeling positive like this it's nice to be able to pretend that my mood is something I helped create and I do have control of and I can hold onto.
May the sun shine a little bit longer.